


The Old Stuff

by Ariane_DeVere



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Crack, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Humor, M/M, Random short Sherlock fics not posted here before, Romance, Season 1 or Season 1 and 2 compliant, Several of them have a twist, Smut, SwearyJohn in some chapters, Tragedy, Various moods, a bit of everything really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-20 03:43:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 14,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11327940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariane_DeVere/pseuds/Ariane_DeVere
Summary: A collection of “Sherlock” ficlets which I originally posted on Livejournal and FF.net but which I’ve not posted to AO3 before.  With the gradual move away from LJ and even though I migrated all my fic (and transcripts etc) toDreamwidth, I figured I should add all these little’uns to my collection here.  I’m still rather fond of them despite their age!Each chapter is a stand-alone story.  Some, but not all, are 221Bs (221 words long, with the final word starting with a ‘b’).  They were written during 2011 and 2012 and so are Season 1 or Season 1/Season 2 compliant.  They mostly appear in the order I wrote them, oldest to 'newest’ but I put the two longer fics at the end (Chapters 16 and 18 - Chapter 17 is a warning about how dire Chapter 18 is!!) in case you’re not into long stuff or want to save those until last.





	1. Crisis

_My first ever_ Sherlock _fic, God help the poor buggers. I really wanted this to be a 221B fic (221 words, with the final word beginning with a ‘b’) but my evil plotbunny wouldn’t let me edit it down enough, and so either the evil plotbunny gave me far too much food for thought, or I’ve been rambling on and on and on again and didn’t know how to shut up – again._

 

The gun cocks and Shan tells him, “Not blank bullets now” and John thinks, ‘They weren’t blank bullets _before_ , lady; the gun was _empty_ ,’ but it’s really not the time to be correcting her English, and she’s pointing the thing so close to his head and her finger is so tight on the trigger and he wants to be noble and heroic in the moments before death but why can he smell sand and why can he hear sand blowing across the floor of the tunnel, and why is there sand in the back of his throat and why is his shoulder screaming in pain, and how can the muzzle on such a tiny pistol be so fucking huge, and he wants to be brave for Sarah because she’s looking at him with terror and dread and _disappointment_ , more than anything _disappointment_ , but he can’t stop himself cowering away from the gun and thinking how unfair it is and how nobody should have to be repeating that please-God-let-me-live mantra inside their head twice in their life and who wants to die in a bloody _tunnel_ anyway and he rolls over onto his side and pulls his knees up to his chest and realises that he’s in his own bed and that this is the fourth night running that he has relived the sodding experience and his heart is pounding and the sand is still in the back of his throat and the tears are flowing and he turns his face into his pillow and sobs. 

Outside the door where he has been standing since the whimpering began three minutes ago, Sherlock clenches and unclenches his fists rhythmically and furiously as he despises himself for not knowing what to do or how to help, and when the muffled sobbing starts he turns and silently retreats to the living room where he paces frenetically until he realises that he has no bloody choice and even though he would rather throw it through the window than do this, he picks up the phone and scrolls through the menu to find the one person who he knows can provide the help he needs and, with his face full of self-loathing, he angrily stabs his finger onto the button which will call his brother.

* * *

_Ooh, hang on – have I just invented a new form of 221B fic? Two sentences, 2 paragraphs and 1 ‘b’ word at the end. There y’go – a 221B. Who said it couldn’t be done? ;-)_


	2. You, I Desire

_This one needs a back story, particularly for newer members of the_ Sherlock _fandom: After Series 1 aired and Benedict in particular became an overnight sensation, he went on to appear at the National Theatre in London in a stage production of “Frankenstein,” co-starring Jonny Lee Miller and directed by Danny Boyle. Benedict and Jonny took it in turns to play the Creature or Victor Frankenstein._

_Tickets for the entire run sold out very quickly and the only way to get a ticket at short notice was to go to the theatre early in the afternoon and sit in the foyer waiting/hoping for returned tickets to go on sale. I did this twice, and was successful in getting a ticket on both occasions. During the very long wait for the Returns ticket office to open, I got chatting with other people who were waiting, and we compared notes on how we got into the_ Sherlock _fandom and talked about which online forums we belonged to. I kept in touch with some of them afterwards, met up with two of them on a couple of occasions and still consider one of them a friend._

_While I was thinking of ideas for another fic to write, Atlin Merrick prompted me with the suggestion that John takes Sherlock to the theatre to see “Frankenstein.”_

_There’s a reference in the story to the opening sequence of the play and the fact that it sends girls giddy. This was because the Creature – whether played by Ben or by Jonny – was first seen being ‘birthed’ from a large cocoon and then very slowly learned to stand upright and then walk ... and during the entire fifteen or so minutes he was extremely naked._

 

“This is ridiculously short notice, John. Why didn’t you tell me about it before?” Sherlock complained irritably down the phone. 

“Until two minutes ago, I didn’t even know that we would get in,” John told him. “This play _is_ the hottest thing in town, you know – you can’t just roll up to the box office and demand tickets. I’ve been sitting in the Returns queue since two o’clock and the desk didn’t open until six and I’ve only just got two tickets. We’re really lucky someone returned them, so get yourself down here quickly: if you’re not here by seven thirty they won’t let you in for the opening sequence, and that’s apparently the best bit of the whole play.” 

“But why do you even _want_ to see it?” Sherlock asked. “I didn’t even know you were _interested_ in the theatre.” 

“I’m not normally,” John said, “but Sarah saw it a few weeks ago and ever since then she’s been telling me that I absolutely _have_ to see it. Then Sally saw it on Friday and she’s been texting me ever since and saying the same thing. I have no idea why they’re so keen, but I had nothing to do this afternoon so I went and sat in the queue. Nice bunch of people – we had a good time. Remind me to find out what this Livejournal thing is when we get home. Anyway, get a move on – you’ve got about forty minutes to get here.” 

For thirty-seven minutes John fretted at the theatre door, wondering if Sherlock was going to throw a wobbly and deliberately arrive late, but his friend finally came striding across the plaza and allowed John to rush him up the ludicrous number of stairs to the entrance to the stalls, Sherlock taking some of them three at a time simply because he could, the bloody show-off, while John stumbled after him, wishing they’d taken the lift instead. The returned tickets were really good seats, four rows from the stage – and _should_ be good considering how much they had been (John hadn’t been to the theatre in years but had gulped heavily at the price and had made a mental note to tease both Sarah and Sally that they ought to pay him part of the cost, seeing as _they_ had bullied him into this). Sherlock slumped into his seat griping about not having had time to buy a programme and not having the first idea who was in it or who was directing it. John was about to sarcastically suggest that he ought to be able to work out everything he needed to know from the ... _thing_ on the stage but then the lights dimmed and the opening sequence, which each of the girls had separately told him was amazing, began. 

It wasn’t really John’s kind of thing, though he could understand _why_ the girls had been so excited – and giggly – about the scene, but even with his lack of theatrical knowledge he could appreciate that this was something new and very different. Turning his head slightly to his right he could see that Sherlock was already engrossed, his fingers steepled in front of his mouth as he watched. A second character entered, walking right through the audience, but John wasn’t really paying attention to him, his focus still on the actor who had held the stage alone for the past fifteen minutes with an energy that made John feel tired just watching him. 

The second character was only on the stage for about a minute, and it was another forty minutes or so before he reappeared, charging in from the rear of the stage wearing a long coat that flared out behind him in a way that seemed oddly familiar and Oh. 

My. 

God. 

It was as if someone had stabbed John in the stomach. For one panic-stricken moment he wondered if somebody had shot him, or if he was having some unrecognisable medical crisis. The brief moment of pain was savage and intense and John only just avoided doubling over in his seat with the severity of the sensation. 

He had a feeling that he had actually gasped out loud because the person sitting in front of him half turned her head, apparently wondering what she’d missed onstage to provoke such a reaction. The other reason he was sure that gasping had been involved was because, while the pain in his stomach was fading, his chest now hurt. Apparently he had sucked in a large lungful of air but hadn’t yet got around to letting it out again. For some odd reason he didn’t seem to be able to remember how it was done. 

He couldn’t understand what was going on. And he knew _exactly_ what was going on. And he didn’t _want_ to know exactly what was going on, because it was too much to handle. It wasn’t possible. It _mustn’t_ be possible. It _couldn’t_ be possible, even though it made total sense; even though a large part of his mind was screaming, “See? I knew it all along! Why didn’t you _listen_ to me?!” 

Beside him, Sherlock shifted briefly in his seat, apparently unaware of the crisis which John was undergoing. John finally managed to exhale and then resume some semblance of normal breathing, which wasn’t easy with the revelation that had just hit him. It _really_ didn’t make sense. So a character had a long coat – but this should not be setting off the realisations that were smashing into John’s head right now. And yes, the character was tall and slender and graceful and had impossibly attractive curly hair ... and was ludicrously self-confident and arrogant and self-centred ... and unaware or uncaring of what anybody else thought or felt ... _and_ had just turned around into a position where the stage lighting hit his face in such a way that his eyes were glowing so blue that John was momentarily transfixed, and then knew with complete conviction that he was lost forever. 

Because the beautiful man on the stage had just made him realise that he was in love with the beautiful man sitting beside him. 

And John didn’t have the faintest idea what the hell he was going to do about it.

* * *

Author’s note: 

Dedicated to anyone who sat with me in the Returns queue at the National, especially if we got chatting. I was staggered how many online _Sherlock_ fans I met on the two occasions I was there! Hi in particular to _ratherbe4gotten_ and _mintyflossy_ from LJ, _owlsinabra_ from Tumblr, _fezzesarecool_ from the bakerstreet forum, the woman to whom I flogged my spare £45 ticket for 30 quid on the last Friday of the run (I never got her name!) and anyone else who helped the time pass so nicely. 

The title of the fic is, of course, a quote from the play – one of the most moving lines of the entire play, in my opinion. 


	3. Gives You Wings

“Silverstone?” John repeated in an amazed voice. “ _Silverstone_?” 

“Oh good lord, John,” Sherlock snapped. “Do you want me to say it a few more times? _Yes_ , Silverstone. We are going to Silverstone. We have a case at Silverstone. We’re going to _Silverstone_. Have you caught up yet?” 

“But it’s ...” John managed to snap his mouth shut. Sherlock’s glower was now so severe that John wondered if anyone had ever pulled a muscle in their eyebrows before today, or if this would be the first recorded example. 

He turned away, his mouth widening into a huge grin, and tried really hard not to bounce on the spot with excitement. It wasn’t every day that your colleague came home and informed you that he had a case which would not only involve travelling to the home of British Motorsport – at the British government’s expense (for once, John bloody _loved_ Mycroft) – but during the weekend of the _British Formula 1 Grand Prix_. 

Still grinning, he turned back towards his friend, who sighed dramatically. “Yes, John,” he said in resignation. “I’ll find a way for you to talk to [Jenson Button](http://www.jensonbutton.com/).” 

“Sod that,” John replied. “I swear I’ll never complain about your violin, or eyeballs in the microwave ever again if you find a valid excuse for me to sit in a [Red Bull](http://www.redbullracing.com/).”

* * *

_For the benefit of anyone who doesn’t know, the slogan of the Red Bull drinks company is “Red Bull gives you wings.”_


	4. A Study in Anger

He doesn’t want to go to school today. He doesn’t want to go to school _any_ day, but recently the sneers and insults of the big boys have become more hurtful and frequent. It’s not _fair_ that they hate him just because he’s different. Mummy has always said that being clever is a _good_ thing and he’ll be able to help others when he gets older, so why are they so horrible to him? Don’t they realise he might be something brilliant, like a doctor, and save their lives one day? 

There’s one person he might ask for advice, but he knows that his older sibling will probably suggest that he tells a teacher, and then go back to reading those stupid politics books, the big fat idiot. He giggles momentarily at the silent insult, knowing what Mummy would say if she ever heard him say it out loud.

And then he’s back at school, on his knees in the playground, his books scattered around him where they’ve been dumped out of his bag, and the big boys and their leader are sneering at him while the playground monitor turns a blind eye. He blinks rapidly, determined not to cry, and the fury grows inside him. 

“When I’m older,” he vows silently, “Carl Powers will regret he was ever a bully.”


	5. Proper Genius

Sally always said he would end up becoming a killer through sheer boredom. 

When he paces around restlessly with nothing to do, his best and only friend watches with concern and does his best to keep him distracted and busy; and he knows that his brother worries about him, constantly. 

It’s hard being a genius, with a mind that never stops working even when it has nothing to work on. The sheer frustration of knowing he is smarter than everybody around him – that there’s nobody with whom he can spar on an equal level – makes him want to scream with rage sometimes. 

And then Sally divorces him and takes away his beloved children, his best friend gets married and moves abroad, and his brother Is busy with his own work. Then the aneurism diagnosis comes, and now he doesn’t care any more; all he wants to do is to outlive other people. Everyone’s so stupid – they deserve to die. He hears the first whispers about the mysterious “Moriarty” and finally tracks him – or them? – down and is put on the path to a less boring finale to his life. 

But though he thinks he can see how everything will unwind, like a map inside his head, even _he_ doesn’t have the faintest idea that it will all end with a bullet.


	6. Flatmates should know the worst about each other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are many things that John has to tolerate now that he lives with Sherlock, but nobody ever prepared him for this.

It’s worse than the drugs busts; worse than the terrible times when there’s no case and Sherlock prowls around the flat, bored and dangerous; worse than the terrible times when there _is_ a case and Sherlock flares around London with no thought for his own safety or that of others; worse than the times when a case goes on too long and Sherlock is pale, exhausted and trembling from lack of both food and sleep.

It’s even worse than the few heartbreaking times – thankfully _very_ few – when Sherlock can no longer resist the call of his old addictions and John comes home to find that it’s not nicotine patches that Sherlock has been applying to his arm.

In all of these scenarios, John is at Sherlock’s side, quiet, supportive, ready to defend him, protect him – or die for him.

It’s still a shock whenever Sherlock’s anguished voice cries out John’s name, disturbing John from his sleep or from a doze on the sofa. The fear in Sherlock’s voice is horrifying and John wants to bury his head under a pillow and pretend he can’t hear it.

But he’s in this for good and bad, and so John sighs tiredly and once more pulls himself to his feet and goes to defend and protect Sherlock by retrieving the spider from the bath.


	7. A Good Man

**Warning** : Character death in this chapter

 

The idiot shouldn’t even have been there but, like so often in the past, had found out where the team was going and simply turned up. 

And when it all went tits up and Laura Dickerson’s gang arrived, he was the only one near to the door. Lestrade would never forget his look of determination, resignation – and regret – as he glanced back at the others one last time before swinging the door closed, locking himself in with the gang as he pulled the key out and dropped it down the drain, keeping the Yarders safe but leaving them utterly unable to assist. 

John’s anguished scream when he heard the first gunshots on the other side of the door would probably ring in Lestrade’s ears for the rest of his life.

And now Lestrade looked out over the congregation, pleased that so many people had come. He turned his eyes to the coffin. “You always _were_ a bloody idiot,” he told it fondly, and Sally choked out a brief laugh from the front pew before burying her face in her hands.

“But you finally ended up being a good man,” Lestrade continued shakily. “I _knew_ you could be.”

In a show of utmost respect, he addressed his fallen colleague the same way he always had.

“Thanks, Anderson – you utter, idiotic, _stupid_ berk.”


	8. Shush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A party for John and Sherlock. Anderson and alcohol. What could _possibly_ go wrong?

**Warnings** : A tiny bit of not-very-bad violence, but otherwise nothing to cause any upset, and an adorable video if you stick it out to the end. (How’s that for emotional blackmail?!) (conveniently ignoring the fact that you could simply jump straight to the end ...)

 

“I heard they first met in a lab at Bart’s.”

I looked around at the man who had been standing beside me for some time but who – until now – hadn’t spoken since we had been introduced. Like me, he had been watching Sherlock and John across the room as they stood side by side and talked with other guests. Sherlock, not surprisingly, looked utterly uncomfortable with the entire proceedings but John was grinning and happily accepting all the handshakes and hugs, chatting with everyone who approached them and flirting outrageously with some of the female guests.

I hadn’t been sure whether to accept John’s invitation to this party. I knew that Sherlock wouldn’t care less whether I attended or not, but John had told me on the phone that he would be personally insulted if I didn’t show. Now I stood at the bar trying to be unobtrusive while the man beside me took another long pull on his pint. The way that his teeth clashed against the glass as he raised it to his mouth suggested that he had already had too much to drink and his coordination was suffering as a consequence.

“Yes, they did, Mr Anderson,” I replied. “Sherlock used to spend a great deal of his time at Bart’s and as time went by it became obvious to me that – even though he didn’t actually want to speak with anyone – he just wanted some company. So when John arrived on the scene and was looking for some cheap accommodation just when Sherlock decided to move to Baker Street, I was delighted that they were able to get together.”

“So you’re the one who’s most responsible for getting them together in the first place, are you, Mike?”

I grimaced. “Well, there were several people and circumstances involved in the two of them becoming flatmates, but I like to think that I played a part in it, yes.”

“Holmes was an annoying sod before he met John,” Anderson told me confidentially. “Well, he’s _still_ an annoying sod, but at least he’s not quite as annoying a sod as he used to be, and even when he _is_ a sannoying odd, he’s not as, umm ...” He trailed off, looking confused, then took another long drink. “Anyway, he’s annoying but not _as_ annoying as he was when he was _really_ annoying. And a sod.” He nodded vigorously to me as if sure that I would understand.

I smiled politely. “Sherlock certainly has some ... _unusual_ character traits,” I agreed, “but John seems to have been a good influence on him.”

“Yeah, and at least Holmes has become a bit more civil since he met Doctor Watson,” said Anderson, still nodding as if he couldn’t work out how to make his head stop moving. “It’s done him good not spending all his time on his own, and he’s obviously got the doctor on the brain these days ...”

He paused momentarily, then began to cackle hysterically.

“Oh, that’s a good one! Doctor on the _brain_ , geddit! Doctor ... on the _Brain!_ The doctor ... is _on_ ... the _Brain_ , Mike! Oh, I crack myself up sometimes!”

While he continued giggling I wondered what percentage of British judges would accept a plea of justifiable manslaughter and whether it was worth the risk, and it was with the utmost relief that I saw Inspector Lestrade approaching us. Anderson almost overbalanced as he turned towards him and beamed cheerfully.

“I was just talking with Mike here. He’s one of the reasons that Holmes and Watson are together now, you know!”

Lestrade looked at me anxiously for a moment, then turned back to his colleague who was swaying dangerously from foot to foot. He leaned closer to him and said soothingly, “Yeah, shush now, Steve.”

“ _Steve_?! I’m not Steve!” Anderson protested.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “You’re a bloody idiot is what you are,” he told him. “How can you work at the Yard and not pick up on _any_ of the standing jokes?”

Smiling apologetically at me, he took Anderson’s arm and attempted to steer him away but the inebriated man simply pulled his arm away and turned back towards me, stepping into my personal space and gazing vaguely in the direction of my eyes. “Not Steve,” he told me, nodding reassuringly. “I’m not Steve, OK, Mike?” He burped into my face.

“God almighty,” Lestrade grumbled. “How you _ever_ managed to pull your wife _or_ Donovan is a mystery to me. I would imagine that if most women had to make a choice, you’d be a long shot against the low frequency vibrating of a loose radiator.”

Again he tried to tug Anderson away but again the other man resisted him, protesting, “Leave off, guv! I’m talking to Mike!”

Lestrade sighed heavily. “Anderson, I’m trying _really_ hard to resist the temptation to set fire to your face and then put the flames out with a shovel, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult. _Come with me_ , you stupid git!”

Anderson scowled at him. “’m gonna go and talk to John and Holmes,” he slurred, “and you should come with me, Mike, ‘cause you’re _their_ mate, so you must be _my_ mate. And _neither_ of us is an annoying sod.” He grinned inanely at me for a moment, then his face became serious as he looked down and concentrated, apparently trying to remind his feet how to walk.

Just as he decided that his left foot was going to lead and therefore he should sway a little to the right and then wobble precariously, I took hold of his arm and murmured into his ear, “If you do _anything_ to ruin this party, Mr Anderson, I will ensure that your career is abruptly and permanently ended.” I leaned closer to him as he raised his head and stared at me wide-eyed. “And I _can_ ensure it, believe me.”

For a moment he looked at me anxiously but then the belligerence of the drunk began to take hold and he scowled, attempted to draw himself up to his full height and poked at my shoulder with a finger. “Now look here, Mike ...” he began.

Finally losing my patience, I seized his finger and pulled it downwards, twisting it firmly until he whined in pain, tears springing to his eyes while his knees half-buckled under him. I looked across to Lestrade who bit back a smile before casually turning away and looking in any direction but mine. Releasing the obnoxious oaf’s hand, I bent down to him as he doubled over clutching at his finger and whimpering. Putting my hand firmly on his shoulder, I kept my voice low but injected as much ferocity into it as I could muster.

“And if you _ever_ use that form of address in my presence again, it will be my utmost pleasure to end _you_.”

Nodding politely to him, I released him and straightened up, directed a smile at a grinning Inspector Lestrade and then turned and walked across the room towards Sherlock and my future brother-in-law.

* * *

Author’s Note: 

Why is it now so ingrained in my mind to write 221Bs that even when I _don’t_ , I still have to end my story with a word beginning with ‘b’? 

The “Yeah, shush now, Steve” line comes from [this video](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QKn_LgZv9g4). Even if you can’t stand cute kittens, you should watch it for the dialogue, which is some of the most brilliantly inventive stuff I’ve ever heard. (Thanks to Marielikestodraw for flagging up this series of vids!) 

The “doctor on the brain – geddit?!” line is one that Anarion, Atlin Merrick, Mirith Griffin and I each agreed to crowbar into a story by any means possible after we met up in London. 


	9. Get Thinking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock will use any excuse not to help with the household chores, but this is a new one ...

The plastic handles of the shopping bags were cutting into John’s fingers as he trudged up the stairs, and he was tired and bad-tempered. He glared at his flatmate slumped at one end of the sofa.

“Don’t bother telling me what your last slave died of,” he told him grumpily. “I think I can guess.”

“I’m thinking,” Sherlock told him firmly.

“So what else is new?” John demanded. “And is the mighty Holmes brain incapable of multi-tasking all of a sudden?”

“I’m _thinking_ ,” Sherlock insisted, gripping the arm of the sofa more firmly.

John stomped into the kitchen, hauled the bags onto the table and began to unload them, grumbling quietly. For a while there was no sound from the other room, then Sherlock emitted a high-pitched whine which continued for several seconds. Alarmed, John hurried into the lounge to be greeted by the sight of Sherlock sliding in slow motion off the sofa and onto the floor, apparently unable to prevent himself.

“What the hell ...?” John ran across the room and fell to his knees beside him as Sherlock landed firmly on his backside. Even as John reached for him, Sherlock turned and burped an alcohol-laden breath into his face while beaming cheerfully at him.

“I _thaid_ I wath thinking,” he told him happily. “Get me thome more beer.”

* * *

Author’s Note: 

My best mate and all-round adorable person Verity Burns sent me a white fluffy bunny to assist my other plotbunny, Cedric, in inspiring me. The new bunny is named VerityBun and she is wearing a T-shirt which says, “Get thinking!” on it. This _may_ have had something to do with the inspiration for this latest 221B ...


	10. Frothy Preparation

Part of Harry’s present had been two large bars of good quality chocolate, and after days of rich Christmas pudding and mince pies, John craved something light and easy to eat. Eggs, sugar and salt were in the cupboards and it took no more than half an hour to finish the preparation, then a patient wait for a couple of hours while it set in the fridge.

Despite his usual reluctance to eat _anything_ , Sherlock had an amazing habit of appearing whenever John had food in his hands, and so John didn’t even jump when Sherlock breathed, “What’s _that_?” in his ear as he took the finished item from the fridge.

“A roast chicken dinner, obviously,” John told him straight-faced, then relented at Sherlock’s indignant look. “It’s chocolate mousse made without cream ... hey!” He snatched the dish away as Sherlock stuck his fingers into the dessert and scooped out a large dollop.

“I’ll get you a spoon,” John began but Sherlock put his fingers into his mouth and sucked on them with a blissful look on his face, then turned a predatory gaze onto John.

“Spoons are boring,” he told him as he stalked slowly towards him, herding John and his dessert gently backwards towards the bedroom. “And only unimaginative people would eat something like this from a _bowl_ ...”

* * *

_The title comes from part of one dictionary definition of ‘mousse.’_


	11. Susan

Susan sighed as the drunk leered at her once again. On most Tuesday evenings the bar was quiet, just a few people popping in for a quick drink after work before heading home. It was unusual for a customer to be so bladdered on a Tuesday and she wished she hadn’t agreed that the manager could take the night off for his wedding anniversary.

“You’re really pretty, Su,” the drunk told her for the umpteenth time, slurring her name as he grabbed at her arm across the bar and leaned closer, huffing beery breath into her face. “Come ‘ere and giss’a kiss,” he insisted.

“Don’t be such a tit,” she told him as she struggled to pull free.

Just then, the man with the startling blue eyes, dark curly hair and long dark coat who had been sitting in the corner of the bar nursing a Scotch for the last hour stood up and walked over, murmuring quietly, “She’s not interested in you.”

The drunk released Su’s arm and stood up angrily. “Says who?” he demanded and swung the punch.

It was over in seconds. Her saviour whirled into a blur of motion and moments later the drunk was unconscious on the floor. As the other customers applauded, her rescuer turned, bowed, and winked at her.

“Just dealing with the bar-tit,Su.”

* * *

Author’s Note: 

It’s all right, I’ll wait ...

Or if you really don’t get it, click [here](http://lmgtfy.com/?q=bartitsu). 

Or, if you’re reading this on a device which doesn’t allow clicking, here’s the first bit of Wikipedia’s entry:  
_Bartitsu is an eclectic martial art and self-defence method originally developed in England during the years 1898–1902. In 1903, it was immortalised (as "baritsu") by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, author of the Sherlock Holmes mystery stories._

And yes, this 221b fic does end with a ‘b’ word ... if you squint.

When I ran the idea for this fic past Verity Burns, she kindly pointed out, “If anyone complains that Conan Doyle actually called it ‘Baritsu’, rather than by its proper name, the doofus, you can tell them you love him enough to overlook his mistakes - just as we forgive him John Watson’s wandering war wound and Mary Morstan’s rather relaxed attitude to her husband’s name!”


	12. By any other name

_Written on 8 March 2012, not long after the UK transmission of ‘The Reichenbach Fall.’_

 

He has _always_ hated his name. If he didn’t have an irritating but unavoidable sense of loyalty to his parents’ memory, he would have changed it decades ago. His classmates at school always sneered at how unusual the name was, and his brother was no help at all, simply quoting that stupid Shakespearean line about a rose smelling as sweet. Idiot. You’d think that, being lumbered with the same problem, he would sympathise with him. But it makes no sense to him: he won’t ever forgive his parents for bestowing such an annoying name on him, so why couldn’t he ever bring himself to change it and feel happier with himself?

But now he has to disappear; to vanish from the world and leave no trace of himself behind. At long last he has a good reason to change his name, a reason that even his late parents and his oh-so-very-annoyingly-alive brother will understand and forgive him for.

He looks down at his hand in bemusement when he realises that it’s shaking while he dials the number.

“Hello,” he says when someone answers at the other end. “I need to speak to one of your reporters, please.”

The voice asks for his name, and an excited shudder runs through his body as he opens his mouth.

“My name ... is Richard Brook.”

* * *

Author’s Note (as written on 8 March 2012): 

So this one resonates with me. I’ve despised my own name all my life – can’t explain why. It wasn’t an unusual name like Sherlock, Mycroft or Moriarty but I hated it. It didn’t feel right on me, and even as a youngster I took on the name of my favourite TV character at the time – at least inside my own head. The name changed over time but when I was eleven I read the name ‘Callie’ in a book and fell in love with it immediately. Later I decided that if I was ever going to change my name for real, I was going to change the surname as well, and at the age of fifteen – for reasons too complicated to explain – decided that my new surname would be ‘Sullivan.’ And finally, at the ripe old age of thirty-five (fifteen years ago), I made the change official.

My Mum never really understood but, bless her heart, wanted me to be happy and – to my surprise – called me Callie from that day on, only occasionally and accidentally slipping into my original name. And when I started calling myself Ariane DeVere for fic-writing and macro-making purposes, she just nodded and accepted that too.

She died on the 10th of February.

This 221B Author’s Note is dedicated to the memory of my Mum, Betty.


	13. Etc

John linked hands with Sherlock, concentrating on not having a heart attack as the memories of the last hour ran through his mind. Their love-making was _always_ awesome but this had been ...

He turned to look at the man lying beside him who had reduced him to this state. Sherlock’s free hand was draped over his eyes and he looked satisfyingly exhausted.

“That ... was amazing,” John said. He smirked as Sherlock groaned, but then looked at him more seriously. “No, it was _way_ more than amazing,” he continued. “I can’t even think of a word. You’ve got a better dictionary in your head than me ...”

“Best yet,” Sherlock said drowsily.

“That’ll do,” John agreed, smiling as he turned his head away.

He was almost dozing off when there was a scratching sound near the door. He turned to look, and frowned as the small creature scurried across the room and disappeared under the bureau.

“Sherlock? We’ve got a mouse.”

“ _Three_ mice,” Sherlock replied sleepily. “Don’t worry – I know how to get rid of them.”

“Oh,” John said. He turned and blinked innocently at Sherlock. “So does that mean that the best laid men have mice and schemes?”

Sherlock lifted his head and stared at John’s wide grin, then scowled mock-ferociously.

“Get out of this bed and never come back.”

* * *

Author’s Note: 

In case you don’t know: “The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men” (often misquoted as ‘The best laid _plans_ o’ mice an’ men’) comes from a famous [poem](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/To_a_Mouse) by Robert Burns.

This fic has been lurking around in my head ever since I first read the staggeringly good and _very_ NC-17 fic [Best Laid Etc](http://archiveofourown.org/works/162407) by abundantlyqueer. That title immediately gave me the punchline for this story (as well as its own title), but it’s taken over a year to get it out of my head and onto the screen.

P.S. Sorry. It probably should have _stayed_ in my head.


	14. Revelation

_In an unfortunate accident of timing, I first posted this in May 2012 on the day after ‘The Reichenbach Fall’ first aired in America. I then spent the next week apologising to anyone who read it ..._

 

“He married during the time you were apart.”

“Married?”

“You’ve been apart for a long time. He had no idea whether you would ever be reunited; he missed you, he was lonely. It was inevitable that he would seek friendship elsewhere, and Mary understood him, was patient with him, and eventually they fell in love. Well, I say ‘ _they_ fell in love’ – she fell in love with _him_. He likes her a great deal, he enjoys her company and he missed her when she was away from him. She knows he doesn’t love her in the same way, but she also knows he _needs_ her, and she wants to be there for him. So when he asked her to marry him, she accepted. It was a quiet ceremony; I was surprised that he invited me but I was pleased to attend.”

“Why are you telling me this, Mycroft?”

“Because it’s time. It has taken a long while, but both of you are safe from any threat from Moriarty’s network, and you can return to two hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street if you wish. Whether you want to live there or simply use it as a base from which to work, it is available.”

“And she’ll be coming too?”

“Yes, of course. Come, John. Come and meet Sherlock’s new bride.”


	15. Next

“Next, please.” John released the intercom and sat back in his chair while he waited for the receptionist to send in his next patient. Despite his attempts to concentrate on his work, his mind began to wander, as it so frequently did even after all this time.

_Sometimes there was a day when he didn’t think of him. Just occasionally John would go an entire day without thinking about the man who had given him a purpose in life. And he would wake the next morning and realise that Sherlock was gone, and he would ache with the pain ... but the pain was real and necessary, and he would be tempted to carve Sherlock’s name on his arm to make the pain even more real so he would never forget again._

A persistent tickly cough, and advice that over-the-counter medicine would actually be cheaper than if John wrote a prescription. The patient seemed indignant at being offered the less expensive option, believing that prescription medicine must by its very nature be more powerful. A tired explanation that ‘expensive’ didn’t mean ‘better,’ and a disgruntled departure full of mumbling that next time she would go and see Doctor Sawyer instead.

“Next.”

_Sometimes there was a day when he schemed: John had no idea whether there was an afterlife but if he and Sherlock eventually met in such a circumstance, he planned out in great detail what he would say to his former flatmate, and it wouldn’t be pleasant. He had so many things to tell him about his rage at being left behind with no rational explanation, his confusion at Sherlock’s obviously false admission of being a fake, his sense of betrayal that Sherlock apparently hadn’t been able to trust him ... and his grief at losing his only real friend. If there was a rule against punching spirits in the afterlife, John was very likely to be booted out and would spend the rest of eternity in a much darker place. It might just be worth it._

A lump under the skin of the man’s arm which had only appeared during the last couple of weeks. A recommendation to keep monitoring it and to come back if it got any larger. An addition to the patient’s notes to put a flag on the computer to phone the patient and check that all was well if he hadn’t come back within two months.

“Next.”

_Sometimes there was a day when he wrote a long blog entry about the pain, or about the words he intended to say. He would pour out all his anguish, his rage, his guilt ... and then delete the draft. Not even Ella knew about it – despite his therapist’s encouragement that he should write down his feelings, he could never bring himself to tell her what he was doing. There didn’t seem any point: his outpourings of emotion never made him feel any better afterwards._

A request for a repeat prescription of anti-depressants from a mother of two youngsters who wasn’t coping well with parenthood. A long conversation allowing her to pour out her woes, a suggestion that she seek counselling as a better alternative to help her with her troubles, a list of telephone numbers to call ... and a momentary temptation after the patient had left to write out the ‘scrip anyway and fill it for himself.

“Next, please.”

_And sometimes – just sometimes – there was a day when he was so busy working in the surgery that he didn’t have time to think about the pain, or the words he might say, or what he might write in his blog. Today was not such a day. The patients’ ailments were fairly mundane and predictable and not enough to distract him in between appointments. John hoped that his next patient might be someone more interesting, someone who would take his mind off his continuing anguish for just a few precious minutes._

“So, what can I do for you, Mr. ...” John looked at the name on the card on his desk “... Sigerson?”

What happened _next_ , after the man in the hooded jacket finally raised his head and met his eyes, would never appear on John’s blog.


	16. The Day Before You Came

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It took the world’s most cheerful cab driver to make John Watson realise that he was living an ABBA song.
> 
> (If you don’t know the song The Day Before You Came, _you might find_[ABBA’s version](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-tFCoIZQOG0) (with lyrics underneath) useful.  
>  However, I personally prefer [this cover version](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WbFdT9Jz-m8) by Blancmange.)

_(Just for the record, David Cameron was the Prime Minister when I wrote this story. I thought about updating that section now that I’m publishing the story again, but decided against it. The way things are going here in the UK at the moment (June 2017), we’ll have yet another PM in a few months anyway and possibly another one some months after that and really I’ve got better things to do than update every time!)_

 

So far it had been a diabolical day: it had started with yet another ferocious argument with Harry over the phone – the third in as many weeks – during which she said some truly hurtful things and interspersed them with the sort of language that startled even an ex-Army doctor.

The day went downhill from there.

The surgery in which he was currently acting as a locum rang to say that he wouldn’t be needed today after all. The doctor he had been covering for had recovered from his illness more quickly than expected and was ready to return to work. John had been expecting a few more days’ work – and, more importantly, a few more days’ _pay_ – and to be told that he wasn’t required was hurtful to both his medical dignity and his pocket.

With nothing better to do, he went out to the supermarket but then Sherlock sent him a text demanding that he join him at Scotland Yard immediately and that it was urgent. When he arrived, having abandoned his almost-full shopping basket at the side of an aisle before hurrying out of the store, Lestrade looked at him in surprise when he burst into his office. When John explained that he had been summoned, Lestrade gave him a sympathetic look before telling him that Sherlock had rung him as well, saying that he was coming over to look at some reports on a cold case – a cold case that was _eighty years old_ and hardly the vital matter which Sherlock had indicated to John – but had then texted five minutes later to say that there was a change of plan and he would come over that afternoon.

“Apparently he didn’t bother to tell _you_ ,” he added with an apologetic grimace.

“Obviously not,” John replied tightly. Turning to storm out of the office, he forgot that he had left the door open and banged heavily into it, smacking his forehead against the wood and swearing loudly. Lestrade’s hastily muffled snort of laughter didn’t elevate his mood at all and, rubbing his head ferociously, he stomped out of the office and headed home.

Mrs Hudson intercepted him seconds after he opened the front door. “I need you to do something about the smell,” she told him in an overly-dramatic stage whisper. It was hardly necessary for her to mention it, as John had reeled the moment he stepped indoors. It was equally unnecessary to wonder where the stench was emanating from and after reassuring her that he would deal with it and apologising on behalf of his friend – who was rapidly losing the title of ‘flat-mate’ and likely to gain the title of ‘flat-bloody-nuisance’ any minute now – John charged up the stairs and hurried into the flat, slamming both of the first floor doors closed behind him and throwing open the windows in the sitting room before turning and facing the source of his irritation. Sherlock was sitting at his microscope in the kitchen, apparently oblivious to the appalling stench and not even glancing up as John stomped over to the window beside the fridge and opened it as wide as it would go.

“Finally burned out your sense of smell, have you?” John enquired angrily as he turned around from the window.

“Hmm?” Sherlock asked, engrossed in his latest slide.

“I said ...” John hesitated for a moment and then continued, his teeth gritted against his fury, “... have you finally learned that you’re as dense as hell?”

“Mmm,” Sherlock agreed vaguely, then frowned but still didn’t look up. “Is that your attempt at humour?” he asked.

“No, I think I lost all sense of _that_ about fifty seconds ago when I walked in the front door,” John replied evenly.

Sherlock opened his mouth. He was probably about to correct John over the number of seconds he had been indoors; and if he did, John was going to punch him very hard indeed and this time he _wouldn’t_ be avoiding his nose and teeth. To prevent the imminent violence, he started talking before Sherlock could speak.

“I don’t even want to know what’s causing the stink in here. All I want is for you to add it immediately to the list of items banned from this flat, and that when you find something equally foul-smelling to replace it as you inevitably will, you _open a bloody window_.”

Sherlock grimaced in obvious exasperation at the extension of the list to which John was constantly adding items.

“Also,” John continued, “did it even occur to you to tell me that you didn’t need me at the Yard when you told Greg you weren’t going?”

“I _did_ tell you ...” Sherlock started but John interrupted.

“No; I meant did you consider _texting_ me, rather than just saying it out loud and assuming that the words would carry from here to Tesco’s, work their way through the automatic doors, float up and down the aisles until they found me and then wriggle inside my ear?”

Sherlock sighed pointedly, then lifted his head and looked at John. If he registered the fury in his flatmate’s face, he chose to ignore it.

“You went to Scotland Yard?”

“Yes, I went to the sodding Yard,” John told him angrily. “And then I turned around and came home again from the sodding Yard. Because you _didn’t_ go to the sodding Yard. But you didn’t sodding well tell _me_ you weren’t going to the sodding Yard. Which was nice of you.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said disinterestedly, then perked up and looked at John expectantly. “Did you bring the reports I wanted?”

“Do you know what? I _didn’t_ bring the reports,” John said, breathing hard in a rapidly failing attempt to retain the last dregs of his temper. “I didn’t bring the reports because I was too busy being ever so slightly furious about being treated like I’m nothing more than your personal dogsbody.”

For the first time there was a flash of annoyance on Sherlock’s face.

“Did you have something better to do, Doctor?” he asked, the sarcasm obvious in his voice.

And that was when John finally lost it.

“Just for once in my sodding life can I have _one normal day_?!” he yelled. “For Just. One. _Day_. can I not get shot at, or have to chase after some knife-wielding maniac because you won’t let the police do their job and will insist on collaring the bloke yourself, or have to apologise to half the bloody world for your stupid behaviour, or get half blown up, poisoned or driven out of the flat by one of your stupid experiments, or have you constantly texting me because you can’t be arsed to walk across the room to pick up a pencil, or sending me off on your errands because you’re too lazy to collect the samples or the bloody reports you urgently need which aren’t urgent at all ...”

He stopped as he ran out of air and stood glaring at his flatmate who was looking at him with infuriating calmness. Again Sherlock opened his mouth but John pointed at him sternly.

“No. Don’t you dare say a bloody word if you want to live beyond the next eight seconds. I’m sick of it, Sherlock. I’m sick of being treated like this; I’m sick of feeling like I’ve got no real purpose in life ... and I’m sick of _you_.”

Turning on his heel he almost skidded on something wet that had dripped off the edge of the table – quite possibly the whatever-it-was that was rapidly rendering the flat unliveable. Catching his balance before he fell on top of it and ruined yet another set of clothes, he hurled the kitchen door open, went through and slammed it noisily behind him before storming downstairs and out the front door. With no thought of an ultimate destination, he headed in the general direction of anywhere that wasn’t Baker Street.

He walked for several hours, not even aware of where he was going, his head down and his mind full of black thoughts about the bloody awful day he was having and wondering just how much longer he could try to tolerate Sherlock’s behaviour before he had no choice but to save his sanity by packing his bags and moving out. It was only when it began to rain that he took any notice of his surroundings and realised he had no clue where he was. Swearing under his breath as the rain got heavier, he looked around for a taxi but apparently he was in an area of London where black cabs rarely ventured.

It took him another few minutes before he found a parade of shops but he was relieved to see a minicab office amongst them and went inside to request a cab.

“It’ll be at least twenty minutes, mate,” the dispatcher told him. “They’re all out on jobs at the moment.”

John glared at him, breathing heavily.

“Sorry,” the dispatcher shrugged, looking anything but apologetic.

Grimly John sat down on one of the hard wooden chairs, the water from his wet jacket starting to soak into his skin. By the time the dispatcher pointed to the door and told him that his cab was outside, he was feeling distinctly chilled. John hauled himself to his feet, walked outside and got into the back seat of the waiting car.

“Hello, hello, hello!” hollered the driver over his shoulder.

John rolled my eyes. _‘Oh, gods protect me from cheerful cabbies; that’s the last thing I need right now,’_ he thought angrily as he grunted a reply.

“Where are we going, then?” the driver enquired in a strong Polish accent.

Opening his mouth to give the obvious answer, John hesitated. He didn’t actually want to go home. Back at the flat he would either face a peeved flatmate who would want to continue the argument, or be greeted with a petulant and silent sulk. Neither of those options appealed to him but now that he considered it, he had nowhere else to go. He definitely wasn’t going to Harry’s; and any of his friends – although they would surely be willing to give him a bed for the night or even for a few days – would either ask pointed questions or keep a diplomatic silence which would be even more irritating.

The driver turned and looked at him as if he was an idiot who couldn’t remember his own address.

“Baker Street,” John told him glumly, adding the post code which the man typed into his satnav.

The cabbie put the car in gear but then scowled at the sight of an elderly man doddering across the road several yards in front of him. The old man didn’t seem to be paying any attention to the traffic and was apparently in a world of his own as he wandered slowly away from the safety of the pavement. The driver looked round at John.

“He’s in my way. Can I kill him?” he asked.

Disinterestedly, John said, “Yeah, do it,” but then sucked in a panicked breath when the cabbie happily said, “Okay!” before beginning to accelerate towards the unwitting pedestrian. However, the driver slowed down again a second later and allowed the old man to wander out of the way before driving on.

John sank back in his seat and let out a relieved breath. The driver grinned.

“I would have been doing him a favour, you know,” he informed John airily. “With all the pensions being cut, and the National Health Service no good any more, it would be a good thing. I should talk to Dave about it. That’s the Prime Minister, isn’t it – Dave?”

He glanced round to see John’s answering nod. “Yes, I’ll talk to Dave about it,” he continued. “He could pay me a small fee for every old person I run over because I’m saving him some money.”

It was obvious from his expression that he was only joking but John allowed himself a small smile. _‘It’s a good job I know you’re not serious,’_ he thought to himself. _‘The last time I knew a cabbie as murderous as you, I shot him dead shortly afterwards.’_

In an attempt to forestall any further conversation he took his phone from his pocket and pretended to be checking his texts but the cabbie had other ideas.

“Get out of the way, silly Land Cruiser,” he told the vehicle in front of him which was apparently committing the ultimate sin of blocking the cab’s progress by waiting to turn right at the T-junction ahead. He looked over his shoulder again.

“So, which way are we going, then?” he asked cheerily in his heavy accent. “I can turn left and go up the main road, or turn right and go through the village. Which way do you prefer?”

“I really don’t care,” John replied without looking up from his phone. “At this time of day it’s going to be busy whichever way you go.” He chose not to mention that he didn’t know the area, concerned that the cabbie would take him a deliberately circuitous and expensive route.

“I think we’ll go left,” the driver said, switching on his indicator, then added, “No, we’ll go through the village.” He changed the direction of the indicator, then pursed his lips. “No, we’ll go left.” Again he flicked the stalk on the steering column. “But it’s busy down the main road. But then it’s busy in the village too ...”

 _‘Jesus,’_ John thought as his temper began to rise again. _‘We’ll be here all bloody day while he makes his mind up.’_

The Land Cruiser finally found a gap in the traffic and turned right and after another bout of indicator-changing, the driver finally settled on turning right as well. “It’ll be busy in the village,” he said happily over his shoulder. “But never mind; we’ll get there eventually.”

 _‘Just let me die,’_ John thought morbidly even as his mouth twitched a little. The driver was so cheerful that his mood couldn’t help but rub off just a little no matter how grumpy John was feeling.

Nevertheless he kept his head down and continued to pretend to peruse his phone and the driver seemed to take the hint and turned on the stereo. John grimaced. He didn’t often take minicabs – usually only when he was coming home from Harry’s house in the suburbs – but they always played the most banale of radio stations, the ones which seemed to have a playlist of only four bland pop songs which were repeated ad nauseam. So his eyes widened a moment later when the music began to pump through the speakers.

 _‘It’s ABBA!’_ he thought to himself. _‘It’s bloody ABBA!’_

From the quality of the sound it was clear that this was a CD rather than a radio station and John ducked his head and tried not to laugh out loud. Never a big fan of ABBA’s music, he had nevertheless been inflicted with it a great deal during his childhood because his mother had loved the band and would often have their albums playing while she was doing the housework. He and Harry had heard them so many times that they had known many of the lyrics by heart and, despite declaring that the songs were old-fashioned and rubbish, would frequently sing along without realising what they were doing, much to their mum’s delight.

John had rarely heard this music since he had left home almost twenty years ago but as the lyrics of _Does Your Mother Know_ began he felt a mad urge to sing along in an overly fake Swedish accent in the way that he and Harry always had. Mercifully the driver also refrained from singing but when the track was followed by _Super Trouper_ John – still keeping his head lowered – couldn’t help silently miming _“Su-pa-pa Trou-pa-pa”_ along with the chorus. He grinned to himself, imagining Sherlock’s reaction if he ever caught John singing such a ludicrous set of lyrics. But that reminded him that he was mad as hell at Sherlock and that this was the reason he was in this cab with a crazy cabbie and his ridiculous music in the first place. He scowled, the mood spoiled.

And then the third track began and John felt a reminiscent pang. _The Day Before You Came_ had been Mum’s favourite ABBA song and even though he hadn’t heard the song for almost twenty years, the entire lyrics immediately sprang back into his mind. As he remembered the theme of the song his eyes widened in shock ... and in recognition.

Since his enforced return from Afghanistan, John’s life had been pointless, mundane, meaningless. Similarly, the song listed the singer’s daily boring routine and how it had never varied until someone came into their life and changed it for the better.

_I must have kept on dragging through the business of the day.  
Without really knowing anything, I hid a part of me away_

He had avoided the well-intentioned attempts of his friends to include him in their social lives, choosing to politely thank them while turning down their invitations. Eventually they had given up trying and the phone calls had become less frequent.

_Oh yes, I’m sure my life was well within its usual frame  
The day before you came_

He had spent nearly all his time in the miserable bedsit, only venturing out to walk aimlessly around London, not wanting to leave the town but knowing that eventually he wouldn’t be able to afford to stay. That knowledge had made him feel even worse. No friends, no job and soon no home – at least not one in an area he knew.

_It’s funny, but I have no sense of living without pain  
The day before you came_

John’s leg twitched and a spasm ran across his left shoulder. Suddenly the hand holding his phone wasn’t entirely steady. Life before Sherlock had been nothing but boredom, unhappiness, frustrating psychosomatic discomfort and a sense of despair at the pointlessness of his existence. He had had nothing to look forward to, little chance of a career that meant anything to him, and utter loneliness as he repeatedly rejected his therapist’s well-meaning encouragement to embrace civilian life again. Ella’s insistence that he write a blog of his daily life had only made him more painfully aware that he _had_ no life; and taking his laptop out of the drawer every morning had only drawn his attention to the pistol hidden in there. If Sherlock hadn’t come into his life and given him something worth living for, John felt it might only have been a matter of time before he had reached for the gun instead of the laptop.

_And rattling on the roof I must have heard the sound of rain  
The day before you came._

But now ... now his life was insane, and annoying, and frustrating ... and fun, and enjoyable, and utterly unpredictable. Every day was worth getting out of bed for; every adventure filled him with excitement; every near-death experience made him feel alive. Even the irritating moments – no food in the flat, running aimless errands for Sherlock, being dragged away from work and all the subsequent arguments – were worth getting annoyed over. Because he had a reason to be alive. He had a reason to live. He _wanted_ to live. And the complete change had happened the day Mike brought him into the lab at Bart’s.

Sherlock had saved his life.

Sherlock had _given_ him a life.

John didn’t want to be anywhere else; didn’t want to be _with_ anyone else. The day before Sherlock Holmes came into his life, John had had nothing to live for. Now, with that crazy and infuriating man in his world, John had something worthwhile, something which made him feel important and worthy of existence. John had a life.

The cab had turned into Baker Street and was approaching 221B. In all the time that he had lived there, John had never been so happy to see it.

“Pull over on the left here, please,” he told the driver.

“If that’s where you want me to stop, that’s where I’m going to stop!” the man replied cheerfully. He pulled up at the pavement, then turned and frowned at John as if surprised he was still in the car. “We’re here. Get out,” he told him mock-sternly.

Grinning, John climbed out and walked around to the driver’s window.

“You are without doubt the _best_ cab driver I have ever had,” he told him as he paid the fare and added an overly-generous tip, “and I _love_ your choice of music.”

“It’s better than all that boom-boom-boom,” the driver said, waving his arms around before beginning a frenetic bout of air-drumming.

“Thanks for a brilliant drive,” John said, then stood back and watched the car depart before turning and gazing up at the first floor window of his flat. He could faintly hear Sherlock’s violin, and recognised it instantly as the classical piece which he had once told Sherlock was his favourite.

Smiling, John took his door keys from his pocket and went home to the only life he had ever wanted.

* * *

Author’s Note: 

If you think that the Polish cabbie was crazy and unrealistic, I agree. And that is the man who drove me home after a painful and uncomfortable hospital appointment. All I wanted was to sit in the back of the car and feel sorry for myself, and my driver did and said exactly the things that I have related here – including almost running over the old man who got in his way, and playing an ABBA CD all the way home (including _The Day Before You Came_ ). By the time I got home – and especially when he sternly told me, “We’re here. Get out.” – he had cheered me up so thoroughly that I wish I had got his name, cos I wanted to adopt him and keep him in my sock drawer. Or possibly marry him.

Many thanks to Mirith Griffin, who suggested – after I emailed her and other LJ friends about my day – that the driver was so brilliant that I should incorporate him into a fic. It was only then that I realised that _The Day Before You Came_ was perfect for John, and this story was the result.


	17. Interlude and Warning

INTERLUDE

Before going on my final story in this collection, a brief interlude:

There are three older stories which I won’t post here, the reason being that I didn’t write them. Well, I didn’t write _everything_ in them; they are all collaborations with some very talented _Sherlock_ writers and so, although they each posted the stories in their own Livejournal blogs and may have possibly transferred them to AO3 since, I just felt it might not be appropriate to include them in this collection. 

If you’re interested in seeing these stories, you can click into them below but – for the benefit of newer readers of _Sherlock_ fanfic who may not know my co-authors’ names – do note that all four writers are well known for their NC-17 ratings. Each of these stories is raunchy, and the third one contains honest-to-goodness porn!

[Coming Together](https://arianedevere.dreamwidth.org/13689.html) (co-written with Atlin Merrick and Verity Burns)

[Partners in Crime](https://arianedevere.dreamwidth.org/20933.html) (co-written with Anarion, Atlin Merrick and Verity Burns)

[Quintessential](https://arianedevere.dreamwidth.org/26986.html) (co-written with Anarion, Atlin Merrick, Mirith Griffin and Verity Burns)

 

WARNING

The last and final story in this collection follows. I thought long and hard about whether to include it here or whether to post it separately – or whether to leave it where it was, buried deep in an LJ blog where nobody would find it. As I commented on the original posting of the story, _“I seem to have only two settings: silly bonkers crack, and all-out angst. This is probably the angsty-est angst I have written so far.”_

Basically it’s nearly 3000 words of sadness and misery. But I love this story. It’s the one that stubbornly insisted on being written despite me not wanting to. After the idea had popped into my head – and I had fought it back, telling it, ‘Are you _mad_?! My readers would kill me to death with sticks!’ – it kept nagging, to the extent that when the title of the story suggested itself to me one Saturday evening, I had no choice but to wake up early on Sunday morning and go straight onto the computer and start writing. At the time, I was a dedicated, website-running, Formula 1 Grand Prix fan and this was the Sunday of the Monaco Grand Prix, but my fic was so determined to be written that I ended up recording the race and carried on writing instead, finishing it by the end of the day and posting it the next morning. Thankfully, the comments from my few readers didn’t express the need to murder me and, while the story had made them very sad, they didn’t actively hate me for writing it.

I think the inspiration for the fic was the fact that, back in 2011 when only Season 1 had aired, nobody else was writing fic which made Anderson a decent person. There were fics redeeming Donovan, but not him, and as a new writer of fanfiction I was always looking for something different to write about. I was rewatching _A Study in Pink_ when the following conversation prompted some ideas:

SHERLOCK: And is your wife away for long?  
ANDERSON: Oh, don’t pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that.  
SHERLOCK: Your deodorant told me that.  
ANDERSON: My deodorant?  
SHERLOCK: It’s for men.  
ANDERSON: Well, of _course_ it’s for men! I’m wearing it!  
SHERLOCK: So’s Sergeant Donovan. ... I’m sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over. And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees.

But even I was shocked when the idea produced such a misery-fest! 

Despite its theme, it’s the story I’m most proud of writing, and I didn’t want to keep it hidden away any more.

Anyway, if you want to end reading this collection on a more cheery note, I recommend that you stop at this point! If you do continue, _please_ heed the warnings first.

And whether you go on to that story or stop at this point, thank you so much for reading. I’m really happy that my older stuff – which I’m still terribly fond of – has been seen by a few more readers.

Ari x


	18. Tourniquet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Traumatic events affecting the inhabitants of 221B result in Anderson finding himself at the local hospital offering to try and help.

**Warnings** : Major character death (already happened), discussion of suicide (attempted) by major character, discussion of suicide (successful) by original character. Altogether unbelievably angsty and miserable. Have a nice day.

 

He had been arguing with the tall man with the umbrella for the last fifteen minutes and didn’t seem to be getting any closer to gaining admission into the hospital room. Anderson was becoming increasingly convinced that the man didn’t even work at the hospital, and certainly neither he nor the attractive woman beside him with her eyes permanently locked onto her BlackBerry looked like the usual type of administrative staff to be found at this hospital.

“Do you even have the _right_ to stop me going in there?” he demanded of the man. “Who the hell _are_ you, anyway?”

“Mycroft Holmes,” the man told him. “I am Sherlock’s brother.”

Anderson’s eyes widened in surprise as the taller man continued.

“So maybe now you understand why I am reluctant to allow in anyone who is likely to make my brother’s state of mind any worse. I know about you, Doctor Anderson – I know about you and _all_ your colleagues at Scotland Yard – and I know that you and my brother do not see eye to eye.”

“That’s why you should let me talk to him,” Anderson told him. “I don’t want to see him just so that I can have an argument with him, but I _do_ have something to say to him: it’s relevant and important, and don’t you think he might be more likely to listen to someone who doesn’t like him but who’s made the effort to come along anyway?”

Mycroft looked at him thoughtfully for a long moment, then tilted his head slightly.

“He did very major damage to both of his arms, Doctor Anderson,” he told him. “This wasn’t a cry for help; it was a determined intention to kill himself. The fact that he was found in time is nothing short of a miracle, and he is not pleased at having been saved. Do you really believe that you can help him to feel better about himself?”

Anderson shrugged. “D.S. Donovan heard the news from D.I. Lestrade and then rang me and told me,” he said. “I wasn’t entirely surprised to learn that he’d tried to kill himself, and if I know your brother he’ll try again as soon as he’s well enough, only next time he’ll make absolutely sure that he isn’t found in time. I’m _not_ claiming that I can go in there and stop him, but I’m here so that Sally – Sergeant Donovan – doesn’t have to do this instead, because it’ll hurt her a lot more than me.”

He looked intently into the other man’s eyes. “ _One_ of us needs to talk to him, and I do believe that what I have to say is relevant. I can’t promise to help him, but I might make him think.”

Mycroft assessed him for a long moment, then nodded. “Very well,” he said, nodding towards the closed door. Anderson turned towards it but Mycroft stepped into his way and leaned closer to him. “If you make his condition worse in any way, Doctor Anderson,” he told him softly, “you’ll have me to answer to.” He smiled unpleasantly. “And you really don’t want to have to answer to me.”

Anderson glowered at him and continued to the door, opening it and going inside before closing it softly and turning towards the bed. He was far more comfortable with dead bodies than he was with live patients, and he fought hard not to flinch at the sight of both of Sherlock’s arms bandaged from his hands all the way up to his elbows. Sherlock was awake but didn’t react in any way to his arrival. Anderson wasn’t even sure if he knew who had come into the room; his gaze was fixed on the ceiling and the lack of expression in his eyes was painful to see. Sherlock Holmes – annoying as he was – was always such a blaze of frenetic energy whenever he was around and it was frightening to see him so still and quiet and pale and ... lost.

He walked towards the armchair on the other side of the bed, Sherlock deliberately turning his head away as he progressed around the bed. Undeterred, Anderson sat in the chair and grimaced at the large bag of blood hanging at the bedside. “I don’t want to be here,” he told Sherlock. “You know what I think of you, but I had to come here to protect someone I care about. Because friendship _matters_ , Holmes, and even if _you_ don’t care about that, I do, and I won’t let someone else get hurt trying to help you.”

Sherlock didn’t respond to him in any way. If his eyes hadn’t been open and flickering occasionally, Anderson would have wondered if he was comatose. He carried on anyway, wondering whether anything he had to say was ever going to get through.

“You think you’re always right, don’t you, and even when you’re proved wrong you think it was just a momentary glitch and that you’re still incapable of making a bad decision.”

He laughed bitterly. “I remember the first time you showed up at a crime scene with Doctor Watson. It’s really ironic, because things happened that day that are so relevant to what you just did, and when I realised that, I ...” He paused for a long moment, looking down at his hands. “I had to come.”

Sherlock sighed out a breath. There was no sound behind it, but the bored incantation of “Dull” was clearly implied. Anderson glared at him.

“I _had_ to come because otherwise Sally Donovan would have come and tried to talk to you about it, and it would be much harder for her. It was bad for her, that night at the house in Brixton when you came over to me, all arrogant and cocky and showing off to your new colleague, and said some awful things about me and Sally and then flounced off into the house with that smug smile on your face. And you were _wrong_ , Holmes. You were so wrong about _everything_.”

He looked down again, clenching his fists in his lap at the memory, then lifted his head and looked at the side of Sherlock’s face, so pale and drawn, and even though he couldn’t see directly into his eyes, the blank hopeless _pointless_ expression was unbearably distressing to see.

“Sally and I have never had an affair. She came over to my house that day because she needed a friend, and because I and my wife have been friends with her ever since she and I first met at the Yard. Her sister Teresa had had psychological problems for years, and that morning the police in Croydon had phoned Sally and told her that Teresa had taken a deliberate swan dive off the top of a multi-storey car park.”

Sherlock’s pale eyes finally turned towards him and locked onto his own with a disturbing combination of blankness and intensity which made Anderson feel thoroughly uncomfortable, but he continued speaking, squirming slightly in his seat but refusing to look away.

“She came to my house that afternoon because we live near to her, and because she knew that my wife’s best friend had killed herself fifteen years previously. She wanted to be with someone who understood what she was going through. She came to see _Angela_ , not me. When I told her that Angela was away on a field trip she started to cry, so I brought her into the house. I was taking her to the kitchen to make some tea, but we only got halfway up the hall and she just sort of crumpled to her knees.”

He gazed through Sherlock, not really seeing him as he remembered that day.

“She was crying so hard I couldn’t do anything but kneel down next to her and hold her. We were down there for ages while she cried herself out. I remember trying to get her up because the hall carpet was really rough on _my_ knees, let alone hers and she was wearing a short skirt, but she wouldn’t budge and I couldn’t even get her to shift over and sit rather than kneel. And then finally she felt a little bit better and I got her into the kitchen and made tea for us; and later on I got the call to go to Brixton. She wasn’t on duty that night but she asked to come along, to keep her mind busy.”

He refocused his gaze on the man in the bed and his voice became more harsh.

“I’m surprised you didn’t _notice_ that she was wearing inappropriate clothing for a call-out, _or_ that she’d been crying. Oh, she washed her face before we left the house, and presumably borrowed a spray of my deodorant, but even in the car I realised how dark the circles were under her eyes, and she didn’t have any make-up with her.”

He sighed, his breath shaking a little at the memory.

“When you said those things to me outside the house I wanted to punch you so hard for being so presumptuous and for implying that we were having an affair while all our colleagues were listening, but if I had spoken out and corrected you then everyone would have known Sally’s business and it was up to _her_ to tell people if she wanted to. And I suppose that in a way you helped her a bit, because she was so furious at you that it kept her mind off Teresa for a while.”

Sherlock’s gaze had become a little more focussed and less intimidating, and Anderson pressed on determinedly.

“You don’t always get it right, Holmes. Obviously you _are_ right a lot of the time, but all that does is makes you arrogant and over-confident, and you think you can do whatever you want because it’s always the right thing to do and you can’t possibly be wrong.” He gestured vaguely around the room. “But you’re wrong about this, you really are. You have to stop charging forward and assuming that you’re right, and you have to _think_ about this, properly. Doctor Watson would never want you to do this. Can you even _imagine_ the look on his face if he was sitting here instead of me?”

For the first time there was a flash of animation in Sherlock’s expression as he flinched slightly. Anderson pushed onwards.

“He would _hate_ what you were doing, wouldn’t he? He would be so disappointed in you – so _angry_ with you for not being stronger. Angela and Sally were both furious with their sister and their friend for not being brave enough to stay behind and fight; I think Doctor Watson would feel the same way about you.”

Sherlock was blinking more frequently now as the other man’s words began to sink in. Again Anderson pressed on, but his voice became gentler.

“You haven’t allowed yourself to think about what he would think of you, have you? You _know_ what he would say if he were here, but you haven’t let yourself think about it. You’ve thought about nothing but finding and dealing with his killer, and once you had done that, you decided you had nothing more to do and it was all right to take your own life.”

He leaned forward a little in his chair, resisting the urge to reach out and put his hand on Sherlock’s arm.

“Who’s going to remember Doctor Watson best once you’re gone? From what I know of the two of you, you spent most of your time with each other, and he told us he didn’t have a very good relationship with his sister.”

He smiled briefly at Sherlock’s surprised blink.

“You didn’t even notice that he talked to the rest of us while you were swanning around at crime scenes, did you? He would often come over and chat with us while we were stuck leaning on walls waiting for you to stop being brilliant. He was _interested_ in people – he asked questions about our work and our lives, and told us about his. There are a lot of people at the Yard who knew John Watson and thought of him as a good man.”

There was a burning behind his eyes and he wondered whether letting the tears come would be a good thing for Sherlock to see or not, but he blinked them back knowing that once he started to weep, he might not be able to stop.

“You’re not the only one who misses him,” he said simply.

A breath huffed out from between Sherlock’s lips.

“He was one of life’s nice people,” Anderson told him softly. “And for some godawful reason, it’s always the nice people who die early. I don’t know why that is, or whether it’s just that it _seems_ that way because their death matters so much more.”

He drew in another shaky breath.

“But don’t think that your death wouldn’t matter just because you’re not as good a man as he was. You might think that we’d all be glad to see the back of you, but it’s not true. It would be a _waste_ , Holmes – a bloody waste of your talent, and your brilliance, and your skill at bringing criminals to the justice that they deserve ...” he stared intently into Sherlock’s eyes, “... and a bloody waste of the memory of John Watson.”

Sherlock flinched from him, starting to turn his head away but Anderson slapped his hand onto the sheet at the side of Sherlock’s legs and the detective’s eyes reluctantly swung back to his.

“We want to know more about him, _Sherlock_ ,” he said deliberately. “We want to sit in a pub, or at the Yard, or round at someone’s house, and we want to _talk_ about him, compare notes on what we knew about him. Laugh about things he told us about you. Talk about the madder cases he told us about, find out if he was exaggerating at all. We want to remember _him_. And you can tell us so many more things about him that we couldn’t know any other way.”

He leaned forward again, bracing his other hand on the side of the bed.

“If you go, we lose Doctor Watson all over again. We lose the _last_ of him. We’ll never know if he was making up some of the crazy things he said the two of you got up to. We’ll never know if the experiments you did in the kitchen of your flat were really as bad as he said they were. We’ll never hear _your_ side of that story about the chase through the warehouse in Battersea where you ended up half buried in dry pasta shells.”

He smiled briefly at the memory of how much John had giggled when he told the story.

“We’ll never know if the way that you managed to get the two of you out of the swimming baths after your encounter with James Moriarty was really as brilliant as he said, or was just him over-egging it to show how clever he thought you were. We’ll never know ...”

His voice broke. He looked down, blinking hard, then swallowed and drew in another breath.

“We want to mourn him by celebrating him. And we can do that better if you’re there, celebrating _with_ us, telling us about him, telling us about the things you got up to together ... telling us about _both_ of you.”

He lifted his eyes to Sherlock’s again.

“If you go, Mr. Holmes, you’re taking Doctor Watson from us as well. Don’t do that. Please don’t do that.”

Abruptly he stood up and walked back around the bed, stopping at the foot and turning to face Sherlock again. He was a little reassured to note that Sherlock had turned his head to follow his progress. He looked into the pale face again.

“Come back with us and help us remember him,” he told him softly. “And we’ll help _you_ remember him, and celebrate him, and _keep_ remembering him.”

Nodding to him, he turned and walked to the door. As he took hold of the handle, Sherlock started to say something from the bed, but his voice cracked and failed. Anderson turned back to face him as Sherlock swallowed hard and tried again.

“Thank you, Doctor Anderson.” His voice was soft, almost inaudible, but Anderson picked up the words and nodded once more, then smiled slightly.

“Believe it or not, we might even miss _you_ a bit if you went,” he said, quirking a brief grin at him, then turned and left the room.

Closing the door behind him, he paused and blew out a long silent breath, his eyes widening as he realised that that had been the first time that Sherlock had ever used his title when talking to him. He looked around and saw that Sherlock’s brother was walking towards him.

“I don’t know if that was any help at all,” he began quietly, but stopped when Mycroft put a hand onto his shoulder and tilted his head towards the door. Anderson turned his head and could just make out a choked sob coming from inside the room. Mycroft smiled a little and squeezed Anderson’s shoulder.

“Oh, I think you’ve helped more than you can imagine,” he told him quietly, then lifted his hand and gestured towards the nearby seats.

“I think Sherlock needs to be left on his own for a little while,” he said. “In the meantime, why don’t we sit and talk? My assistant has gone to get us some coffee. Sit with me, Doctor Anderson, if you will, and tell me about John Watson.”


End file.
